Professional Oral Storyteller in Innsbruck | Ziyadliwahttp://www.ziyadliwa.com
Thu, 14 Sep 2017 09:51:48 +0200en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.8.2Professional Oral Storyteller in Innsbruck | ZiyadliwaProfessional Oral Storyteller in Innsbruck | Ziyadliwahttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/wp-content/plugins/powerpress/rss_default.jpghttp://www.ziyadliwa.com
Literacy first, pleasehttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/literacy-first-please/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/literacy-first-please/#respondThu, 14 Sep 2017 09:51:30 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/?p=29163I’m a big supporter of literacy projects, whatever the language, and whilst oral storytelling imparts a number of literacy skills, the ability to actually read is fundamental, and often something that readers take for granted. With literacy in mind, I thought I’d share something that I read on the BBC today, a story about a […]

]]>I’m a big supporter of literacy projects, whatever the language, and whilst oral storytelling imparts a number of literacy skills, the ability to actually read is fundamental, and often something that readers take for granted.

With literacy in mind, I thought I’d share something that I read on the BBC today, a story about a woman named Florence Cheptoo who lives in an isolated rural village near Chesongoch, in Kenya. As a child – especially a girl-child living in a rural location – education wasn’t considered particularly important, which meant that at the age of 60, Mrs Cheptoo had managed to raise a family, run a subsistence farm and be a contributing part of the “global village”, all without being able to read.

This all changed when, at the age of 60, her granddaughter brought home books from her school’s lending library, and Mrs Cheptoo realised that she couldn’t help her read. Teachers began adult literacy programmes, and for the first time in her life, Mrs Cheptoo can do things that many of us take for granted, like:

Learn more about the medicine she takes

Read newspaper headlines and find out about the world beyond her village

Read maps

Sign contracts with her own name

See if she was being cheated in written contracts, or with payments

Read the Bible and read storybooks for the first time

Read her grandchildren’s school reports

Reading about what this woman has done in her life without being able to read, and what she has the potential to do now that she can, is something that’s both inspiring and re-affirming.

In some parts of the world, we seem to have gone straight from no education or limited formal education, resulting in people who can live happy lives, but who can’t read, which means that they miss out on many of the benefits of self-learning that reading brings – being able to read about whether your politician is a corrupt so-and-so, for example, of whether your child is lying about the contents of a teacher’s letter.

On some level I can’t help but wonder whether the technological revolution is all a bit useless in places where people don’t have the ability to read.

Perhaps, along with all the technology exports we also need to think about how to bring reading skills to the masses. Because it’s tough to navigate Google or buy something online or take an online course if you’re not sure how to read or write – a shame for people wanting to take part in the consumer market, and possibly devastating for the people and companies investing in commercial and altruistic products and who want to reach the vast markets in areas where literacy hasn’t previously been valued.

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/literacy-first-please/feed/0New storytelling venue in Innsbruck – Kater Nosterhttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/new-storytelling-venue-innsbruck-kater-noster/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/new-storytelling-venue-innsbruck-kater-noster/#respondTue, 05 Sep 2017 10:01:04 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/?p=29113A short post today. For ages, I’ve been looking for a place in Innsbruck where I can offer a monthly storytelling event, and perhaps even start organising other events, too. Die Bäckerei has been a wonderful location for the last year or so, but they are so busy (a good thing) that I often find […]

]]>A short post today. For ages, I’ve been looking for a place in Innsbruck where I can offer a monthly storytelling event, and perhaps even start organising other events, too. Die Bäckerei has been a wonderful location for the last year or so, but they are so busy (a good thing) that I often find myself telling on days when there are 3-4 other events in progress. This makes finding my venue difficult, and of course, it’s near impossible to get a drink because of the crush of people.

It’s taken a long time. I had a couple of venues in mind, one of which simply doesn’t respond, another of which is just a little too far out of the city for walkers (especially in winter), and another of which responded initially but then went silent. I really wanted to find a venue where they’d enjoy a new injection of customers for their bar or restaurant, and I’d be able to have more of a partnering relationship, on that would benefit us both.

I’d almost given up, although I had prepared four new programmes for the end of the year, when I popped out for a coffee with a friend. Whilst we were there, we spotted stairs leading down into… where? And so we had a chat to the lovely Finnish waitress, then to one of the owners, then another owner gave us a quick tour and told me to email their events manager, and lo-and-behold, I now have a wonderful new venue in which to tell stories!

And the venue is Kater Noster. It’s a huge, open, airy space in Leopoldstrasse in Wilten, with a wonderful selection of cocktails, and a feel that is industrial and that reminds me of bars in the US and South Africa.

I can’t wait to try out the space, and hope that you’ll be able to join me when I do!

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/new-storytelling-venue-innsbruck-kater-noster/feed/0The invisible people on our streetshttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/invisible-people-streets/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/invisible-people-streets/#respondTue, 09 May 2017 08:52:40 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/?p=28765In 2001, after the collapse of the World Trade Centre, I decided to drive around the United States of America for 30 days in December. I tried to encourage some of my American friends to join me, but fear had them firmly in its grip. Some were fearful that the US was under full-on attack, […]

]]>In 2001, after the collapse of the World Trade Centre, I decided to drive around the United States of America for 30 days in December. I tried to encourage some of my American friends to join me, but fear had them firmly in its grip. Some were fearful that the US was under full-on attack, whilst others – particularly a good friend from New York – was horrified that I was planning to drive through the South, and the “South” in this case wasn’t Florida.

I did it anyway. I have no problem with my own company, and my journey started in New York, and then I drove south, passing through Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee before finding myself in Louisiana, in the somewhat fabled city of New Orleans.

Obviously every state has a story, but the tale I want to tell took place took place December 23rd, my last night in New Orleans, after I’d eaten dinner and watched some jazz. Although it was dark, I took to the streets for a final wander around the French Quarter before turning in for the night.

Leaving the French Quarter

I’d been walking for around 15 minutes, and had strayed away from the bright lights and busy streets of the city in the direction of Marigny when a man started walking purposefully towards me. He was tall, in his 40s, and very clearly homeless, or at the very least, someone who spent a lot of time on the streets.

I’d like to pretend that I felt no concern, but that would be a lie. Growing up in South Africa I was surrounded by warnings about “white women who were assaulted by black men” (my skin colour can be described as “white”, although it’s pink in the sun, blue in the cold, grey when I’m sick – really, I’m just another South African rainbow). So the fact that I was white and female and alone, and the street person was black and male and both older and physically larger than me, set off a few warning signs.

And of course, as a woman, I was well aware of the conflicted stories that the press reported about women who were raped late at night when out on the streets. You’ve heard the dialogue, I’m sure: “Obviously there is no excuse for rape. But… but if a woman walks through a park at night in a mini-skirt… Well, she probably had it coming…” I wasn’t walking around in a mini-skirt but a pair of jeans, but I was a woman, and it was late, and I had strayed from the “safe” tourist areas, and maybe I had it coming.

I was, however, nothing but polite, in spite of my discomfort and I quashed my instinct to walk quickly back to the bright lights of the tourist streets. When the man fell into step beside me, I simply greeted him in the way that I’d learned whilst staying in Atlanta for a few days with a friend – a quick, “Good evening, sir.”

Expectations

What was I expecting? In retrospect, not much. A request for money, or help – it was, after all, two days before Christmas, the supposed time of goodwill to all men. I knew to be cautious, but I don’t think I was paralysed with fear, certainly not enough to walk away.

What did happen was that the man responded with an equally polite reply, that I seem to recall “Ma’am” (quite bizarre given that I was only a few years out of school, but that’s what it was), and we struck up a conversation.

He asked me where I came from and was a bit taken aback that I was South African and we talked about the country, the people, the political problems, the black-and-white situation for a few blocks. Then I asked him about himself, and he told me his story – finishing school after a few false starts, starting a family too early, work going wrong, his partner kicking him out, living on the streets for a week then a year, moving from place to place in the warm weather and finding a place to keep warm when the air chilled. We discussed the black-and-white situation in the US, spoke about what he’d like to do if he could get off the streets and after a fairly intense conversation with minimal small-talk, I told him that I wanted to head back.

A gift for all seasons

As I did, I wanted to leave him with something. It was, after all, the Christmas season, and I felt bad just leaving him in the street. So I fumbled in my handbag for $20 and handed it to him rather inelegantly (I’ve never learned the secret of handing over a note with panache, I fear).

He gently pushed my hand away and told me he didn’t need it. I tried to insist – a good lunch on Christmas eve, perhaps? Instead, he told me something that I’ve never forgotten.

“It’s been a long time since someone looked me in the eye and greeted me like a human being. Most people turn away – it’s as if I don’t exist. It’s been an even longer time since I had a real conversation with a stranger who didn’t treat me as if they were doing me a favour. I needed that more than I need money.” *

*All said with a wonderful accent and sentence structure that I’m unable to reproduce.

And with that, we shook hands, and I took a right turn to take me back towards the French Quarter and the CBD, and he disappeared into the night.

I don’t remember his name, although I am certain we exchanged names (it’s what I do), and I don’t remember the minute details of our discussion or his life story, but I do remember walking away trying to imagine what it would feel like to be unable to simply make eye contact and smile, or to have an interesting conversation with a stranger because of how I looked or because of the way I was judged.

I am not a regular giver of money to street people – I have my days when I do, and days when I don’t, with no rationale reason as to why I choose one approach over the other at any given time. But since my conversation in New Orleans, I make a point of making eye contact with street people, even when it’s uncomfortable. I nod my head in greeting if it’s loud, or say hello and smile. Sometimes I stop and exchange a sentence or two, just as I would with someone in the queue in a shop or at a bus stop.

Perhaps it’s not always what people want. Perhaps sometimes all they really do want is money or a handout. But sometimes all I can offer is a little bit of humanity, the second-long eye contact that affirms that the person on the street is not invisible and is a human being with a history and a future.

And sometimes, as I’ve learned repeatedly over the years, that’s enough.

Is there a folktale that talks about something similar?

I’m so pleased that you asked! The folktale that sprang to mind as I was thinking about how we perceive and treat people based on how they look and where they live and what they wear… It’s a favourite tale of mine from the wise and wonderful Mullah Nasreddin.

The Honourable Coat

Nasreddin had been working in the fields all day long. He was tired and sweaty and his clothes and shoes were covered with mud and stains. He had been fasting all day for Ramadan, and not a morsel of food or a drop of water had passed his lips since sunrise. He was hungry and thirsty and when his day ended, he left the fields at a run.

On the way home, he almost knocked over a well-dressed man. Apologising, Nasreddin realised that it was a friend of his, the wealthiest man in the village, and he stopped to exchange greetings. The wealthy man stopped him. “Nasreddin, I can’t talk. My daughter is getting married today and tonight we’ll feast! Why don’t you come along!”

Nasreddin protested – he was tired, he was sweaty, his clothes were only his work clothes and he had no time to change.

But the wealthy man insisted. “Don’t be silly. You are our good friend. Come as you and celebrate with us. It starts in 30 minutes.”

Nasreddin ummed and ahhed, then agreed, and his friend rushed off. Nasreddin walked more slowly, dreaming of the food that he would eat at the feast – the fines dates, spiced lentils, salty olives, silky hummus, crispy fatoush, light and crunchy falafel… By the time he arrived at the wealthy man’s home, he was almost drooling with hunger.

When he knocked on the door, it was thrown wide open by the bride’s brother, who looked at Nasreddin – his worn clothes, his sweat-stained face, his working shoes – and ushered him in without a word of welcome.

Nasreddin felt no shame – hadn’t the wealthy man told him to come as he was?

He mingled with the guests and tried to find a place to sit, but it was difficult because no one would make space for him or call him over to join them. Eventually found a seat, but he was ignored by one and all. No one looked at him and no matter how hard he tried to join the conversation, backs were turned and his words fell on deaf ears. Nasreddin tried to focus on the food – the delicious morsels, beautifully prepared, and he was so hungry! – but sitting alone in the crowd, ignored by all, he found that the food tasted of sawdust and his hunger disappeared.

After a short time, he decided to leave and headed home dejectedly. On the way, he stopped in to talk to a friend who owned a small sewing and tailoring business. He told his story and his friend grinned.

Handing Nasreddin a beautiful coat, his friend said, “Wipe your face, then put on this coat. Go back to the feast and see what happens.”

Nasreddin did just that.

Imagine his surprise when he knocked on the door and the same young man who had ignored him earlier now welcomed him enthusiastically.

Nasredding entered the feast hall and heads turned. People stopped to greet him, made space at their tables, involved him in their conversations.

A waiter rushed over with a full plate of food and placed it before Nasreddin with a cool jug of lemon water.

Smiling, Nasreddin poured a glass of water and then tipped it into the sleeve of his coat. A few people laughed but the conversation continued. Then Nasreddin took a handful of falafel and slipped them into his collar, and he smeared a little hummus on his front, and slipped some fatoush into his pockets.

“Eat, eat,” he whispered, just loudly enough for others to hear.

He fed the coat lentils and chickpeas, olives and bread, salad and lamb meatballs — and best of all — desserts — halwah, date rolls, figs and baklava!

The people at the table became silent as they watched this strange behavior. The friendly waiter stood and stared. Soon everyone at the feast had stopped talking. They gaped at Nasreddin. Eventually, someone asked, “Nasreddin, whatever are you doing? Why are you feeding your coat in this manner?”

“Well,” replied Nasreddin. “When I first came to this feast in my old farming clothes, I was not welcome, even though the father of the bride had assured me that I was welcome to come as I was. No one would speak with me. No space was made at a table for me. But when I changed into this coat, suddenly I was greeted warmly. So I realised it was not me that was welcome at this party, but my clothing. And so I am feeding my coat.”

Story credit:
retold by Ziyadliwa and adapted from a Middle Eastern Islamic folk tale that is attributed to different countries, including Turkey and Syria.

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/invisible-people-streets/feed/0Why I tell the story of Saartjie Baartmanhttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/why-i-tell-the-story-of-saartjie-baartman/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/why-i-tell-the-story-of-saartjie-baartman/#respondTue, 11 Apr 2017 18:18:02 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/?p=28931Many Europeans don’t understand white guilt. For years I lived in the UK, where I was lambasted for being a South African, judged as particularly racist for my white-blonde hair and too pale skin (apparently the paler you are as a South African, the more racist the blood that flows through your veins – who […]

For years I lived in the UK, where I was lambasted for being a South African, judged as particularly racist for my white-blonde hair and too pale skin (apparently the paler you are as a South African, the more racist the blood that flows through your veins – who knew?), and yet most of the people I met from England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales had no particular guilt about the sins of the British Empire on the darker-skinned people of the world. In spite of the presence of the British empire in South Africa, Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (Sudan), Basutoland (Lesotho), Bechuanaland (Botswana), British East Africa (Kenya), British Somaliland, (northern Somalia), British Togoland (eastern Ghana), British Cameroons (split between Nigeria and Cameroon), British Egypt, Colonial Nigeria, Rhodesia (Zambia), Nyasaland (Malawi), Sierra Leone, South-West Africa (Namibia), Swaziland, Tanganyika Territory (mainland Tanzania), Uganda Protectorate, Sultanate of Zanzibar (insular Tanzania), India, Burma, Ceylon (Sri Lanka), and a plethora of places in the Middle East and the Asia Pacific, there seems to be little white guilt, and if anything, a great deal of national pride and an idea that their time in occupancy in these countries was for “their own good” if anything.

I’m picking on the Brits now, but the Belgians, Dutch, Danish (yes, the Danish), French, Germans, Italians, Portuguese, Spanish, Swedes, US Americans and others had their fair share of colonies and misdeeds in lands where skins were dark and behaviours were decidedly non-European (and therefore – obviously – uncivilised).

My point is that whilst I am painfully conscious of my whiteness and my privilege and the weight of the unacceptable actions of my ancestors, folks in Europe tend to be rather obvious and somewhat dismissive of claims from their one-time colonies who request help or demand compensation for century-old grievances.

Perhaps it was my white guilt or my concern that so many seemed to have no white guilt that inspired me to tell the story of Saartjie Baartman in my evening of African Fireside tales.

Saartijie’s story

Her story is a short one – the records about her life are minimal:

Born circa 1789 (the year of the French revolution) to a Khoisan family in the eastern part of the Cape Colony, she worked for some years in Cape Town as a maid and wet nurse, before moving to England in 1810 temporarily at the behest of an English surgeon who happened to dabble in exporting unusual animals and the odd slave or two to the homeland. The idea was to exhibit herself and make money (her buttocks were remarkable, not European – or perhaps even human – at all, or so they say), then move home. She became the “Hottentot Venus”, but years passed and in 1814 she was not only still in Europe but had moved to Paris where she was apparently sold to an animal trainer and exhibited in fairs. There she caught the eye of none other than Napoleon’s surgeon, Georges Cuvier, founder and professor of comparative anatomy at the Museum of Natural History. He found her interesting and examined her for proof of a so-called missing link between animals and human beings. Some records indicate that she took to drink to live with herself, and then prostitution to survive. At the age of 25/26, she died in France in December 1815, of an inflammatory disease or perhaps syphilis.

A sad story, to be sure, but one not dissimilar to many working class women across Europe at the time.

A death, but not the end

Where the story takes a particularly unpleasant turn is after her death. Georges Cuvier conducted a dissection of her corpse, then took a plaster cast of her body, placed her genitals and her brain in jars of formaldehyde, and strung up her skeleton on a frame. The cast, bottled genitals and brains, and skeleton were to hang in various French museums, gawped at by millions who compared her to the “missing link” until French women complained about the exhibits being “anti-feminist” – not anti-human, mind you – and they were taken down.

And then? Well, Saartjie’s remains were taken to a dusty storage cupboard, where they remained until 1994 when Nelson Mandela opened conversations with the French government to get her remains returned. It took 8 years. 8 years to return a body because the French government was concerned that if they released one “treasure”, there would be calls to release more.
On the 6th of March, 2002, she returned to South Africa and her remains were interred on Women’s Day on the 9th of August 2002.

I loved telling Saartjie’s story, although I am not black or Khoisan. In these times where we still judge others by their skin colour, where nationalism and racism rear their ugly heads through Europe and the so-called civilised world, I can’t help but ask my audiences: who was the barbarian in this tale? And who the human?

Being conscious that even in recent times, the aristocratic, well-educated and erudite have been guilty of crimes against people simply because of their colour or appearance is, I feel, important. Not to instil guilt, but a sense that we aren’t all “entitled” and to remember that “there but for the grace of G-d go I” (with thanks to John Bradford).

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/why-i-tell-the-story-of-saartjie-baartman/feed/0What Women Want… A night of Medieval Stories in Innsbruckhttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/women-want-night-medieval-stories-innsbruck/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/women-want-night-medieval-stories-innsbruck/#respondMon, 13 Feb 2017 15:07:57 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/?p=28414In a few weeks, I’ll be performing the first performance of my medieval stories, which I’ve entitled “What Women Want”, with a nod to Chaucer’s “The Loathly Lady”, and to say that I’ve enjoyed the research is an understatement. Don’t ask my why I decided to embark on a series of medieval tales – perhaps […]

]]>In a few weeks, I’ll be performing the first performance of my medieval stories, which I’ve entitled “What Women Want”, with a nod to Chaucer’s “The Loathly Lady”, and to say that I’ve enjoyed the research is an understatement. Don’t ask my why I decided to embark on a series of medieval tales – perhaps I’d finished a medieval-styled fantasy fiction when the idea struck, but whatever the reason, I’m grateful. It’s been a fascinating journey!

Clearly I am no medieval researcher, but some of the stories that I’ve collected (but may not necessarily tell) can only be described as smutty, although I’ve seen a few references to “salty medieval tales” too. Drunkenness, blatant cuckoldry, and wives teaching their somewhat useless husbands a lesson are just some of the tales I’ve come across, and for the right audience, they can only be described as delightful.

For the wrong audience, well, I think they’d offend a few people at best.

I initially started speaking of the dark ages in my marketing material, but having conducted my research, my final blurb is as follows:

From drunken monks and wizards to wayward knights and ladies displaying rather unladylike behavior, WHAT WOMEN WANT is a fabulous collection of medieval stories told with energy, wit and wisdom.

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/women-want-night-medieval-stories-innsbruck/feed/0― Rudyard Kipling, The Collected Workshttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/if-history-were-taught/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/if-history-were-taught/#respondFri, 15 Apr 2016 11:51:53 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/test/?p=1160“If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.”

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/if-history-were-taught/feed/0Stories have to be toldhttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/stories-have-to-be-told/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/stories-have-to-be-told/#respondFri, 08 Apr 2016 11:51:56 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/test/?p=1161“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” ― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/stories-have-to-be-told/feed/0The purpose of a storytellerhttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/the-purpose-of-a-storyteller/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/the-purpose-of-a-storyteller/#respondFri, 01 Apr 2016 11:51:15 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/test/?p=1157“The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon.” ― Brandon Sanderson, The Way of Kings

― Brandon Sanderson, The Way of Kings

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/the-purpose-of-a-storyteller/feed/0You may tell a tale thathttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/may-tell-tale/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/may-tell-tale/#respondTue, 15 Mar 2016 11:51:18 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/test/?p=1158“You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows that they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.” ― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

]]>“You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows that they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.”

― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

]]>http://www.ziyadliwa.com/may-tell-tale/feed/0It’s like everyone tells a story about themselveshttp://www.ziyadliwa.com/like-everyone-tells-story/
http://www.ziyadliwa.com/like-everyone-tells-story/#respondFri, 11 Mar 2016 11:49:17 +0000http://www.ziyadliwa.com/test/?p=1153“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.” ― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind